


That's Not How You Forge An Alliance

by MargoGreen



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Oblivious Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Protective Knights (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28907427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MargoGreen/pseuds/MargoGreen
Summary: Merlin gets injured while hunting with Arthur
Comments: 4
Kudos: 85





	That's Not How You Forge An Alliance

**Author's Note:**

> Basically a rough draft of the rough draft, both of which are unfinished. This materialized in my brain around 2 am and I've barely touched it since.

The amount of magic Merlin had shoved into his body would have downed a lesser sorcerer for days if not weeks, and he’d been doing it for the past hour or so. As a physician’s assistant, he knew how much blood was too much. Too much had come and gone before they’d even set off towards the city. He’d lost more during their trudge through the woods, externally and internally. His magic had begun the process of keeping his legs moving hours ago, it had then taken the helm for his lungs and finally, his heart. Forcing him to inhale and exhale, squeezing the stuttering muscle in his chest. Anything to make sure they kept moving, anything to make sure Arthur stayed safe until they were beyond those now looming gates. 

Merlin hadn’t needed to worry about making small talk, small miracles. The king had been too incensed by the sights and sounds of the city as it sprouted from the horizon. He wanted to say something now though, with the hulking metal of the city gates at their backs. He huffed out a “sorry” that floated between them, certain that the puff of air would never reach his king. But somehow, it did. Arthur whirled around right as Merlin finally collapsed. His heart stopping before he hit the ground. Arthur felt the arrest echo through his own chest. 

With two fingers pushed into the pale neck and suspicions confirmed he began beating upon Merlin’s chest and pushing his own air into the boy’s lungs. Gaius’s voice played in his head, reminding him of how fast and how hard to press, how many times before he should stop to shove his breath deep into the battered torso before resuming the act of keeping his heart beating. He kept up this surprisingly exhausting endeavor until a gnarled man shoved his way in and a legion of armored hands pulled him gently back. One knight took his place, thrusting his clasped hands into Merlin’s chest while the harsh stranger began assessing the boy. Arthur had stopped fighting his captors once he’d realized they were only helping. Now he stood frozen, watching and listening as Merlin’s ribs cracked and his body jerked off the ground. Finally, blessedly, the cacophony changed to one of motion. Lifesaving to life maintaining. Merlin was breathing on his own, his heart was doing its job, which meant it was once again pumping blood out onto the rough-hewn stone. He was hauled onto a stretcher and spirited away into the depths of the castle. 

Arthur willed his feet to follow the flurry of movement, but they remained stubbornly planted to the now bloodstained cobblestones. He focused in on the viscous fluid congealing between the setts. He’d known full well that Merlin’s “I’m fine” had been fabricated but he had severely underestimated the severity of the lie. Merlin had been actively dying the whole time Arthur had been picturing steam curling up from a perfectly heated bath. Merlin had been bleeding out while the king had been contemplating what to request for dinner, venison was what he’d landed on. Merlin had died. His heart had stopped beating right where the king was standing. 

It was Gwaine’s on brand holler, “ah Princess, you’re back. Where’s Merlin?” that finally pushed through the invisible mire. He whipped his head around to look at the leisurely approaching knights. Steps faltered as they clocked the king’s pallor and the darkening swatches of blood smeared at his feet. A choked “oh gods” and he was galvanized into action, skidding to a stop once inside the doors. He had no idea where Merlin had been taken. Two days in the castle wasn’t enough time to learn anything but the route from his chambers to the training field. A menacing splotch of crimson caught his eye and a few feet farther another was smeared across the burnished stone. He took off again, following the macabre trail back to its owner. His thoughts raced along with his feet as he careened haphazardly through the foreign corridors. If Merlin had died while Arthur was stood like an idiot gaping at the castle, he would never forgive himself. Merlin wouldn’t have known the difference, but Arthur would. No, would have because as he rounded another corner, the wide flung door of the physician’s chambers came into view. The rough man was still working on Merlin while two slight women flickered around the room. They followed his gruff orders without question, handing over more rolls of gauze or applying pressure when his own hands were otherwise occupied. What appeared outwardly as chaos was actually the inner workings of a well-oiled machine, one that was somehow keeping Merlin alive. Arthur fell back against the wall and sunk to the floor, curling his knees into his chest. 

What was likely only moments later but in this strange time zone seemed like hours, the knights burst into the room as well. They had come to logical conclusions on their harried journey from courtyard to chambers. But now, staring at the tumultuous scene before them, it was blindingly obvious that they had miscalculated. Jointly attempting to coax answers from a near comatose king seemed to either alert or merely irritate the physician. “Two can stay. The rest out” he barked, not bothering to look up from his task. Arthur clearly wasn’t going anywhere. It was likely that he hadn’t even heard the order so that left one spot open. All of the knights cared for Merlin but Leon, Elyan and Percival lacked the depth of connection that Lancelot and Gwaine had with the boy, so they bowed out of the silent battle. Lancelot was noble, beyond reason on most occasions, so he was fully prepared to give Gwaine the horrific privilege until he spotted the sparking ember in his eyes and the burgeoning energy that had his muscles twitching erratically. He knew that fire would need to burn itself out and this was most certainly not the place for it. He rested a gentle hand on the knight’s shoulder, “Gwaine, will you be able to control yourself?” he asked. 

Gwaine was many things, reckless being pretty high up on that list. But he was also very smart and surprisingly self-aware, so he’d understood Lancelot’s point immediately. He gave a tight nod, turned sharply on his heel and stalked from the room to demolish some poor dummy. Whether that dummy was made of wood or flesh would depend entirely upon how daring these foreign knights were and how outwardly Gwaine decided to rage prior to unsheathing his sword. Lancelot slid down the wall beside Arthur, watching the macabre tableau before him. He slid his eyes over to his king every now and again, searching for some sign of coherency. None came until the steady commotion farther in the room stopped before somehow becoming more harried. The women had stepped back giving the physician room to begin pounding on Merlin’s chest. Arthur surged to his feet and made to move forward, but Lancelot held him back. There was nothing either of them could do, no matter how much it tore at them to be idle. 

Lancelot was well aware of how severe the situation was. The amount of blood that had been pooled on the cobble outside paired with the amount seeping into the floorboards here was more than enough to inform him. Despite this, he’d still been holding onto Merlin’s magic as a failsafe. Surely someone with that much power couldn’t just die. And yet, here was that very boy hopefully being coerced back to life by the grizzled hands of a stranger. Lancelot became vaguely aware of Arthur’s muttering before he zeroed in the words. It was mostly a litany of “no’s” and pleas but occasionally he would say something that sounded suspiciously like “not again”. Before Lancelot had time to mentally consider the words, let alone form and voice a question, the women were ushering them out of the room and shutting the door behind them. The knight prayed with everything he had that he hadn’t just witnessed the metaphorical sealing of Merlin’s coffin.


End file.
